"It's so quiet," Porthos says, his tone one of awe as though silence is unknown to him. "They're climbin' out…comin' over."
"It could be a trick." Athos, ever the strategist. After all, Field Marshal French had warned everyone to be on their guard against a German attack on Christmas.
"No, look. They're unarmed." Aramis peers over the trench wall, muscles coiled and prepared to propel him from the ditch that could very well become their grave.
"Merry Christmas!" The thick German accents carry over No Man's Land to where Athos, Aramis, Porthos, and a whole host of Allied soldiers are encamped.
"Fröhliche Weihnachten!" Aramis calls out and hauls himself up and out of the trench only for one of his feet to be grabbed by the nearest high ranking officer.
"What in God's name are you doing?" The thoroughly cross man hisses.
"Wishing them a merry Christmas, sir. And now I'm going to see if they have any cigarettes. Someone," Aramis says with a stern look in Porthos' direction "seems to have smoked all of mine." And with that Aramis finishes scrambling out, Porthos only a heartbeat and several inches behind. Of course where two of them are the third is never far behind, and so Athos also makes an appearance on what was a killing ground not long ago.
When they come face to face with the handful of German soldiers, the air is still, and not a soul makes a sound. Everyone is watching, waiting. What will come of this, this unspoken truce on Christmas day? Those left in the trenches eye the soldiers in the opposite trench with tangible suspicion, uncertain how these overtures of tenuous armistice will be taken. The eight men gathered in no-man's-land breathe in this strange sensation of peace and welcome. They are all of them young yet none of them innocent; the war's seen to that. After all, they're standing in the midst of a macabre scene of blood and grime, bodies and barbed wire that will surely haunt them for nights, weeks, months, years to come.
War may change us, but it will not lay a finger on Christmas. When Aramis looks at his brothers, he sees the same conviction in their eyes, and as one they turn to their German counterparts.
"Fröhliche Weihnachten," Aramis says again, warm smile spreading across his face as he holds out a hand in greeting, and the man across from him instantly shakes Aramis' hand with all the excitement of a child.
"Merry Christmas," the Germans return although one only gets "Merry" out before Porthos seizes him in an enthusiastic embrace that lifts the man off the ground. They all break into cheerful conversation save Aramis and the man beside him. Each looks to his respective side where more and more heads are appearing over rim of the trenches. Their comrades are still observing only, yet unsure of the day's outcome. Aramis whistles loud enough for all to hear and jerks his head in the direction of the soldiers who'd put aside the war in favor of holiday cheer.
Men trickle out from behind and below their defenses. They're desperate for social interaction and yearn to stretch their legs after days and weeks of crouching, hunkering, scrambling, cowering, kneeling to pray that somehow, by some act of God this war would end and they could all go home to their families. In the span of a breath, the trickle becomes a flood of men rushing out to feel human once more.
Someone nudges Aramis' arm, and he looks over to find his German friend offering him a cigarette while lighting one of his own.
"Dankeschön," he smiles and accepts both the cigarette and the light.
"Karl," the man says. "Name's Karl."
"Aramis."
"Are you fluent in German?"
A huff escapes Aramis. "Hardly. But there's a wonderful elderly German couple that lives a few doors down from me back home, and I help Gisela with the shopping when I can. Reinhold's not as young as he once was." He can't help but smile at the memory of them, grey haired and optimistic even in the face of souring public opinion. "They've been teaching me for a few months." Aramis takes a long and satisfying drag and exhales slowly, pleased to have a cigarette all to himself for the first time in what feels like a century.
"You are American, yes?" Karl asks and his eyes alight with interest and a speck of hope.
"Born and raised in Milwaukee." And with these words Karl's face glows in wonder. Aramis is incapable of smiling back in the face of such excitement despite not knowing why this is a source of awe for his German acquaintance.
"Gisela and Reinhold, their name is?"
"Brandt."
"Her eyes are…grün?" Karl looks to Aramis for the English words he's looking for when his excitement interferes with his memory of the language.
"Green, yeah," Aramis offers and grins so wide his eyes nearly disappear in the crinkling skin around them.
"And he has a scar?" Karl draws a line down the left side of his face, and Aramis nods, his own excitement building with the revelation that the world could be so large and yet so small. "These are my grandparents," Karl exclaims and promptly demands Aramis tell him how they were when he last saw them.
"God save us," Athos groans when he sees Aramis and a German soldier chattering away as though they were old friends reunited.
"What?" Porthos asks once he concludes a business transaction with a man who surrendered three packs of cigarettes for a just amount of plum pudding. He scans the field and shakes his head once his eyes fall upon Aramis.
"Remind me why you let a man with more compassion than I've ever seen leave the colonies to fight a war he has no personal claim in."
"Athos, you know full well that we're an independent nation composed of 48 states. We haven't been your colonies for….138 years."
"Why I tolerate you Americans is a mystery."
"Because Aramis is as fine a marksman as you could hope for, and I'm-"
"A force of nature," Athos finishes for Porthos who laughs in a way that sounds like the earth is rumbling.
"Verily, my grumpy British friend."
"Are you mocking me?" That moody eyebrow scales Athos' forehead.
"I would never," Porthos says, claps his hands together, and returns his attention to Aramis. "Let's hope those two don't come face to face durin' battle."
"Who's for a friendly game of football?" A few Allied soldiers pass the ball between themselves, and eager players and spectators shuffle in that direction.
"This should be interesting."
"Entertainin', Athos. It'll be entertainin'. Aramis!" Porthos shouts.
Aramis looks over in instant recognition, smiles and waves.
"We're playin' soccer!" Porthos jerks his thumb in the direction of the growing crowd and begins heading that way himself.
"It's called football," grumbles Athos.
"And soccer."
"Soccer is slang."
"Like you never use slang," Porthos huffs and gives Athos a good-natured shove.
"Porthos! He knows Gisela and Reinhold," Aramis exclaims when he finally catches up to his friends, Karl in tow.
"Your neighbors?"
Aramis nods with all the enthusiasm of a puppy. "They're his grandparents."
Trying with all of his might to refrain from kicking some sense into Aramis, Athos groans internally. In the few months he's known Aramis, he's learned that the man could make friends with sharks if he tried; what Athos doesn't know is if Aramis could kill those sharks should the need arise.
"Athos, you great grump, are you playing or not?"
"Do Americans actually know how to play, Aramis?" Athos returns with his dry tone and raised brow. The oncoming rush of footsteps is the only warning he has before Aramis tackles Athos to the ground.
"You take that back, you tea-drinking mule!"
"Tea-drinking mule?" Athos questions and throws his weight so that it's Aramis who's pinned to the frosted earth. "Hardly one of your more insulting comments. Is that the best you can come up with, you coffee-swilling swine?"
Beside Porthos Karl shifts as if to step in and separate Athos and Aramis, but one look at the unconcerned expression on the big man's face holds him back. "Is… Is this…"
"Happens all the time," Porthos grins and shakes his head. "It's like the Revolution all over again. Enough, you two! Are you playing or not?"
"Get off, tosh head!" With a last and mighty heave, Aramis rolls out from beneath Athos, springs to his feet, and stills in an instant, facing away from his comrades and out over a field littered with the cost of war. "Actually, I think I'll pass on the game."
Before him men on both sides take advantage of the ceasefire and brave the barbed wire to free the bodies of the fallen. They give no attention to uniforms, only caring that these men be given the rights owed to those no longer among the living. Aramis is drawn to them, his mother's admonishments to put others before himself ringing in his ears.
As he sets about freeing someone from the death trap, he wonders for the hundredth time why boys lie about their age to enter the fight; this stretch of bloodstained earth is a strange trade for the comfort of home. But then what of himself? His nation has yet to enter the fight if it ever will, and yet here he is, barely eighteen and willing to die an ocean away from the land of his birth. Athos had asked him and Porthos once why they'd crossed the Atlantic to bleed in another man's war; their answer was and remains one and the same: the majority of their family lives in Europe, in those nations struggling to remain free from those who would oppress them. Why should they sit back while others fight and die in defense of those lives? He and Porthos believe the fight to be as much their own as it is their European comrades'.
Aramis' musing comes to an abrupt halt much later when he recognizes the man in his arms. He was a Frenchman the inseparable trio met nearly a week prior, enthusiastically telling anyone willing to listen of his beautiful daughters, strong son, and magnificent wife. Aramis can't help the weary sigh that escapes him as he closes the man's eyes for the final time. The now lifeless man was to be redeployed elsewhere the day after tomorrow.
He's glad for the sudden presence by his side and the strong arms lifting the corpse from his lap. A lone tear rushes down his cheek, and a flood of frustration follows close behind. So long as they're fighting, as long as there's something to occupy his mind, he doesn't think about the horrors he's seen, won't dwell on the injustice of so many men dying long before their time. But here in this moment there are no distractions, only cold reminders of the nature of war. God willing, the fight will end soon, his exhausted mind prays. Looking around, Aramis finds Porthos on his left and Athos on his right and no one else nearby, so he takes his time repairing his fractured façade in the safety of their presence.
Humming drifts to him from his right, a tune growing more familiar the longer Aramis spends among British soldiers.
In the bleak midwinter
Frosty wind made moan
Earth stood hard as iron
Water like a stone
Snow had fallen, snow on snow
Snow on snow
In the bleak midwinter
Long ago
Aramis recently concluded that he never knew the meaning of bleak until the war. Not even the vast, unending expanse of grey and white of Wisconsin winters remotely compares to the wretched carnage he's experienced everyday for months. Yet, he reminds himself, the hymn was not written so the world could despair of its own bleakness. Rather, it redirects the mind to the brightest of hopes, the glory of Christmas and even the Second Coming.
While he works to free yet another fallen soldier from the wire, Aramis ponders the verses, lets his mind lose itself in Athos' entrancing voice. It's easier to do the work this way. A few of the soldiers nearby join in the song and begin another carol when the first comes to an end. Now and then the cheers of the soccer spectators overtake the melody, but the cheers soon die away, and the singing remains.
Somewhere in it all, Aramis hears Porthos speaking in a low, soothing tone, and a glance in that direction reveals Porthos has found a man not yet claimed by the wire or the shot that surely riddles his body, caught in the fence as he is. Aramis stumbles over as quickly as the pockmarked earth and scattered debris of battle allows. The brief look Porthos sends his way tells him not to get his hopes up for this man, and a step closer informs Aramis that his friend's assessment was painfully accurate. All they can do for this soldier is give him some measure of comfort while he breathes his last.
The day continues this way, with more men coming to help with the dead once the game finishes and much of the bartering for supplies is done, and as the sun sinks behind the horizon everyone returns to their respective sides.
Perhaps there will still be some measure of peace tomorrow. Perhaps not. There's been word from High Command on both sides that further interaction between the lines will not be permitted, but High Command isn't out here bleeding and dying and enduring hell. High Command isn't sacrificing its youth on the altar of peace.
For now, Aramis, Athos, and Porthos settle back into the muck of their trench, grateful that their cigarette supply is replenished and that they had even one day in peace. Tomorrow will bring what it will, but tonight, the evening air is filled with song. It starts among the Germans, the words of Stille Nacht carrying across No Man's Land until it reaches the Allied troops who join the carol in their own respective languages.
"Silent Night, indeed," Porthos murmurs after a long drag on his cigarette. He exhales the smoke heavenward. He never believed the war would resolve itself as quickly as others believed it would. He knows enough history to understand that any war expected to be over in weeks or months will inevitably carry on for much longer. His lack of optimism aside, he's watched the light in Aramis's eyes dim with every death and new offensive, and he's witnessed Athos grow more reckless and agitated the longer he's deployed away from his brother, Thomas. This day of respite, Porthos thinks, has done them some good, even if only a little. Aramis, already surrendered to sleep, rests his head on Porthos's shoulder, and Athos settles their best blanket over the kid, fussing over him the way Porthos suspects he would Thomas if Thomas were here with them.
"I didn't ask for another little brother," Athos huffs when he sees he's caught in the act.
Porthos shrugs and takes another drag. "War makes brothers of us all." He looks down at Aramis and contemplates the younger man for a second. "God knows 'Mis needs a few brothers to look after him."
Athos hums his agreement. The past few months with Aramis and Porthos have made it abundantly clear just how much Aramis puts others before himself, and Athos stopped counting the number of times either he or Porthos has threatened Aramis into caring for himself now and then. He shakes his head in fondness for the kid before lighting a cigarette of his own and lifting his gaze to the stars. "All is calm. All is bright."
Porthos flicks away what remains of his cigarette and settles against the trench wall for the night. "Sleep in heavenly peace, Athos."
A/N: Ok, y'all, I don't speak/read/actually know German at all, so if the German is wrong, we are all fully aware that the internet is a liar. Often. Sometimes. Anyway. I started this thing in 2016 I think (sorry for the long wait you didn't know you were enduring?) and tried to root it in as much actual 1914/World War I history as I could. That first Christmas of the war is really interesting and definitely worth digging into if you're into history or just how awesome humans can be toward each other in the midst of war. If you don't feel like doing the research yourself, it won't take much for me to overload you with further details on the 1914 Christmas if you want info without the work lol.